


straight for the floor

by seaer



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Houston Spies (Blaseball Team), Maincord-Inappropriate Language, Other, San Francisco Lovers (Blaseball Team), between season 13 and 14, blaseball-typical peculiar romance, lovers neodisco, minor incineration mourning, the knight triumphant polycule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 07:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30102714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaer/pseuds/seaer
Summary: “My King poured this vodka into my helmet just now and I can still feel it sloshing around my sollerets.”Knight fidgets, and Fitz strains to hear the sound of spirits moving inside metal. It’s there, though faint. “Grand.”
Relationships: Fitzgerald Blackburn/Knight Triumphant
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	straight for the floor

**Author's Note:**

> they/he/she/xe for fitz, in classic fitz fashion  
> they/them for knight  
> T for a few inappropriate joaks
> 
> mercymorn voice. i often think about this (fitzgerald blackburn)

They’re radiant in the red LEDs outside the neo-disco, panoply glittering, eyes jeweled beyond their lifted visor. Dashing, Fitz might say, if Fitz was in a better mood than this. Knight steps out of the light to stand before Fitz and surveys him with those glamoured eyes.

“I’ve received several requests to get you to stop brooding and come inside.” Where they stand, they’re outlined in scarlet.

She’s not impressed. “Then you can convey a request for your polycule to mind its own business.”

“You are our business,” Knight says, kindly but infuriatingly. “Also, the walls are glass, Fitzgerald. You should brood somewhere less visible if you don’t want to be bothered.”

Fitz looks up into the black San Francisco sky and carries on brooding. He’s good at it, given the (Reese Clark voice!) tenebrous mantle, the umbral suaveness, the smoky goth sensibilities. They find that being composed entirely of shadow does have its perks; they always look just right leaning against a locker. Or a graffitied wall outside another team’s nightclub. Maybe Fitz did want to be bothered, standing out here in easy view of the partygoers, just so that xe could turn away whoever it was that tried. He should’ve guessed that it was going to be Knight.

“Come on. Just join us for a song or two.” Knight shifts to lean against the wall next to Fitz, clinking as they fold their hands behind them. “Show us the moves, fair maiden.”

Fitz is amused, in a ticked-off sort of way. “None to speak of.” Unless you count diffusing. And, hang on, fair maiden? What is that?

“Everyone’s got something in them.” Knight tilts their head back to see the same stars Fitz has been looking at.

“The only thing in me is this concealed wireless earpiece.” Fitz unfolds her arms and tucks them into the pockets of their coat instead.

Knight looks back over. “You’re being awfully candid for a Spy.”

“It’s misdirection,” says Fitz. “I don’t actually have a wireless earpiece.”

“Ah. Tactical.”

“Or do I?”

Knight’s laugh is peculiar, echoing throughout the armour, deep and trustworthy. Fitz glares harder at the brightest star he can find. Inside, the thrum of disco crescendoes with an appreciative cheer from the crowd of Lovers and other party people. Somewhere along the snap of the swap, Fitz’d lost their fedora, presumably dropped and eaten by quantum space, and now they huddle close to their coat like it can take them back, ostracising themself from a perfectly honest party. Xe’s been out here close to half an hour; no honourable laugh is going to bring xem in.

But good drinks might. “How’s the bar?”

“Fantastic,” says Knight. “My King poured this vodka into my helmet just now and I can still feel it sloshing around my sollerets.”

Knight fidgets, and Fitz strains to hear the sound of spirits moving inside metal. It’s there, though faint. “Grand.”

“You strike me as a gin and tonic sort of fella,” Knight says. They lean close, like they’re imparting a secret. The vodka slosh is clearer. “Lady at the bar will set it on fire before you drink, if you ask.”

Fitz scoffs. “Just because my name’s got Burn in it doesn’t mean I take my drinks flaming.”

“Look, my name’s Knight, and I’m a suit of armour.” Knight leans away, rebuffed. “Forgive me if I assume sometimes.”

That reminds him. Wordlessly, Fitz stretches out a solidifying hand; it fizzles through Knight’s face. It’s warm where it sits inside the glamour, like holding your hand in a patch of sunlight. Knight stares back at her from around his wrist, unimpressed. Fitz extracts their hand. It dissipates back into formless smoke. Xe says, “You’re forgiven.”

Knight blinks, tweaks their hologram of a nose like they’re rubbing Fitz’s touch away. “You know, most people only put their hands inside me on the second date.”

“Had to verify the suit of armour claim myself,” Fitz justifies. “Spies don’t rely on secondhand information if firsthand’s available.”

“Yeah, that’s the first hand that’s gone through my head, thanks.” Knight flips their visor down. Looks like it’s their turn to brood. “You could’ve asked.”

Despite himself, Fitz is amused, again. “You would’ve said yes?”

“Yes,” Knight says. “I would’ve said, sure you can wave your hands through my glamour, as long as you agree to come in with me after.”

Fitz weighs this. “But now you’re mad and you’re going to leave me alone out here, right?”

“No, you’re not that lucky,” says Knight. “I’ll get you that flaming cocktail. Anything. Join me?”

“One song,” Fitz says.

Knight straightens up. “Two?”

“Two, but only if I like the second one.”

“Stay for a third and you can take as much photographic documentation of my glamour as you want,” Knight says. They ease the helmet off, tuck it under an arm, and toss their head; the gracefully curling dark hair resettles, disheveled with precise art.

“Deal,” says Fitz. “Can I get a video?”

Knight grins a rather improper grin, an openly delighted one that reaches their eyes and beyond. They offer their hand. Fitz takes it, hesitantly, and with deliberate slowness Knight brings Fitz’s nebulous hand to their mouth, bows to kiss his knuckles with intangible lips. The nuclear shadows behind Fitz’s face thicken with speed. Knight looks up at xem through their eyelashes and says, “Shall we?”

They go inside. At the threshold, before the music overwhelms them, Knight remarks, “You are the most charming company.”

Fitz laughs, disbelieving. “I bet you say that to all the sentient smoke entities.”

“Only the ones with beautiful eyes.”

They step into the disco, the loping beat rushing to life around them, and immediately, a Lover falls upon them, shouting their glee. Fitz thins herself out just in time to evade the tackle. “You convinced them!” More lovers converge, and Fitz, unaccustomed to the physical frenzy of neo-disco, shrinks closer to Knight, which turns out to be a bad move, since most of the Lovers are aiming for them. The profusion of flashing pink lights lends everything an added manic rhythm.

“Fitz is here!” The announcement ripples through the crowd like a well-executed body wave. Sure. Fitz is here, but at what cost.

The Lover nearest to them, still bouncing to the music, tiptoes to put a kiss on Knight’s cheek. They whisper something in their ear and then float away, giggling to themself. Fitz, tense where xe’s arm in arm with Knight, looks pointedly away.

Another Lover yells over the music, “New guy’s here!” They turn to the DJ. “Play something goth!”

“Goth disco’s not a thing, Alex!”

“Make it a thing!” Fitz recognises them as Alexander Horne; it’s easy, what with the horns. Their shirt is open, showcasing an expanse of scars and cerise muscle.

“Can I get you a drink, Fitzy?” One of the Helgas is at Fitz’s other elbow. Her blond hair is half-up, held in place by a miniature sword the size of a finger. She’s got fuchsia glitter smeared around her eyes, as if she’s recently sobbed out the entire supply of a craft store.

Fitz is understandably vexed. “Sorry, I don’t know a Fitzy?”

The Helga shrugs, unbothered. “Would you prefer Gerry?”

Fitz does not shrug. Fitz is not unbothered. Fitz says, “I will shred you like a confidential document.”

Helga puts a hand over her mouth in exaggerated shock. “You are such a Spy.”

So maybe the vindication hits like a shot of adrenaline. Fitz would grin if they had teeth. They look over at Knight, who looks back, eyebrows raising slightly. Fitz leans close to Knight’s ear and says, “Catch you later?” before he disengages from their side and falls in step next to Helga. Fitz tells her, “You really know exactly what to say to a girl, Miss Burton.”

“Oh, you’re sharp,” Helga says, impressed. “And thank you. I like to think that I do.”

Fitz dodges a careening head full of snakes. “‘Course I am. Where’s Moreno?” She tucks their hands back into the pockets of his spy coat, facing their elbows outward for some defense against the dancing.

“Somewhere else. Not Elsewhere, she just couldn’t make it tonight.”

“Shame,” Fitz says. A Lover runs into his elbow and bounces off.

The song changes, and Helga does a little sway to the new one. “You were looking like you couldn’t make it tonight, too, up until Knight dragged you in.” 

Fitz gives a noncommittal hmmm. The small rapport xe’s built with Helga has been rapid and surprising, an acquaintance sparked from just that one offhand comment; it’s alright to them, to chat up a Lover, just as long as they do it as a Spy. “Call it a change of heart. Or call it gathering intel.”

“Intel that helps you differentiate between Helgas?” Helga asks. “I’m not even wearing my glasses.”

“That one’s hardly intel,” Fitz says. She taps the side of their neck, or what works as his neck, though smoky. “You’ve got a mole right there.”

Helga’s head jerks as she looks down for the mole. She realises it’s impossible to see her own neck and looks back up. “Stalker!”

Fitz rolls incandescent eyes. “Spy.”

“You don’t know, I could be Moreno, wearing an elaborate disguise. The mole could be liquid eyeliner.”

“I know enough about disguises to be certain it’s not.” Fitz steps past a pair of partygoers, one of which is weeping into the other’s shoulder. He and Helga reach the bar and collapse onto red vinyl stools. 

“What do you drink?” Helga nods at the bartender. “We’ve got so many garbage cocktails, you don’t even know.”

“Any of those,” Fitz says. Shadow people aren’t the best sommeliers, because the existence of their taste buds is debatable. Then again, so is the existence of their voice boxes, but Fitz talks just fine.

Helga and the bartender swap brief cheek kisses before she orders two drinks that both sound like sex positions. While they wait, Fitz scans the crowd. The disco is full of people Fitz has studied, from the folders that Alexandria passes around before seasons. She picks out Knight. They’re swarmed with partners near the far glass wall.

Their drinks arrive, one danger-pink and topped with a tiny umbrella, the other tall and inauspiciously shimmery. As expected, Helga reaches for the pink one, leaving Fitz with the one that seems liable to give xem a hangover strong enough to kill a goat. “Enjoy. I’m going to go fraternise. Come with?”

Fitz sips from her glass. Fraternising and alcohol never mix well. They like to be lucid and in possession of all their inhibitions when they mingle. “No, thanks.”

“That’s fine. Sit tight.” She hops off the bar stool, and skips into the sea of people, holding her drink aloft. She disappears out of sight in a matter of seconds, leaving Fitz at the bar alone. Fitz nurses their drink; shuts their eyes and shrinks their shadow against the pounding, flickering disco lights. He should feel grateful for being deserted. This was what xe’d been doing, in the first place, wasn’t it? Brooding.

It’s not that Fitz can’t take a party, or that Fitz can’t dance (they can). It’s not even that they don’t like the Lovers (the Lovers are just fine). It’s just that Fitz wants with all the smoke in them to be somewhere else; somewhere undisclosed, with individuals who may or may not play blaseball on the same team as Fitz. They know the Spies are still reeling from what happened to Teddy and Norris, and xe wishes he could be around, not even to do anything, or to comfort (it’s hard when you’re mostly shadows), but just to be around. To hold their hurt, together. To be home, no matter what pieces are missing.

It scares them sometimes. The very concept of a home. The idea that you could be at the greatest places or the wildest parties and still miss other rooms.

Fitz knocks back a slug of her garbage cocktail and launches into a coughing fit that is highly improbable given the status of his lungs (incorporeal). Another Lover slides into the stool next to them and waves the bartender over.

Upon first glance, Sandford Garner is very fetching for a man named Sandford. Fitz watches him out of the corner of their narrowed eye as xe hiccups their way out of the tail end of her coughs. Sandford looks over, looks to the bartender, and says, “Another of the same for the fair gentleman.”

“Gentlemen,” Fitz amends gently. “And ladies. And everyone who’s not either.”

Sandford looks alarmed. “Sorry, I’m not loaded enough to buy a round for the whole bar.”

Fitz could get used to the Lovers. “I was talking about myself. Don’t worry.”

“Oh,” says Sandford. He really is good-looking, silvery at the crown of his head, brown skin expensively smooth. Eyes that tilt upwards in an unseen smile. “So it’s true, what they say about Hades and all the souls?”

Fitz’s not-quite-perceivable mouth leaves a carbon ring of residue on the rim of his glass. “Decline to comment.”

“Right, right.” Sandford props his chin in one hand. “You waiting for someone?”

“No,” Fitz lies. She finishes their cocktail in one last gulp and sets the empty glass on the counter. “Just not in the mood to dance.”

The second one is the truth, at least. He and Sandford talk, their conversation coming in stops and starts. They discuss Sandford’s extra elbows (impressive!), the past season (...fiery), the music that’s playing (acceptable). When Sandford leaves, pulled away by a boyfriend, Fitz feels a twinge of regret. Xe wonders if xe’s laying it on too thick.

Fitz is pretty sure xe is. They’re not waiting for anyone, but that’s a lie. She’s not in the mood to dance, and that’s true, though it’s also true that it’s not a mood that strikes her often in the first place. Here is another truth, unsaid: just look at him. The trench coat. The standoffishness. The posturing. Fitzgerald Blackburn is clinging, if clinging was ever this Blyronic.

They’re certain that if they kick back, or set foot on the dance floor, or look too long at Knight Triumphant, the past ten Spy seasons will go up in smoke, rinsed away from stone like a nuclear silhouette. That if she doesn’t hold tight to this identity, the one that is several different identities at once, the entropy will begin. Thus. You’d have to beat Fitz away from the agent life with a blaseball bat.

He’s afraid, under it all. They lick the alcohol from shifting lips and try to keep their thoughts rational. It’s hard; that drink Helga got xem must have been the real stuff. She’s afraid, afraid, afraid—are those Lovers doing a cheerleading routine on the dance floor?—he’s afraid first and foremost that it’s only a matter of time before the Spies forget that xe was ever theirs.

It has to have been more than three songs by now. Sandford’s drink is mellower. Sweeter. Fitz rolls a mouthful of it around until it’s saturated with her smoke. When Knight joins xem, out of breath from something or other, Fitz is aware that they might be in trouble. On the second drink! Gods.

“Well, don’t you look mysterious.” Knight is still helmet-less. A cursory sweep of the disco and Fitz pinpoints the helmet, being used for drunk fielding practice on the dance floor.

“I’ve been here, being mysterious and thinking mysterious thoughts, waiting for you to join me,” Fitz says dryly. Yup. Definitely in trouble.

Knight loves it, at least. They beam at Fitz so brilliantly that it feels like Hellmouth. “A drink with a side of fire for my ladies and gentlemen?”

“You drink it after the fire goes out, right?”

“I don’t know, how adventurous are you?”

Fitz finishes his second drink. “I’m made of shadows. I can take fire no problem.” It sounds like blasphemy even as it leaves their lips. Like inviting bad karma in. Xe ignores the chill that runs through xem.

“Perfect.” Knight drops the bartender a wink and orders swiftly. The two of them watch the mixing, the descent of glistening spirits down their trajectories. The click of the candle lighter like the safety of a gun. It’s a true-blue wonder, when their drinks burst ablaze, a myth that retells itself on the pitch and in symbols, never to rest. The bartender slides them two flaming wineglasses.

The fire is cornflower-beautiful, dancing tall. Knight says, “There might be a little vodka in there, I think, for the prettier flames.”

Fitz curls a hand around the stem. “Toast?”

“Absolutely.” Knight lifts their flaming glass. Fitz follows suit.

After a moment of silence, Fitz says, “To Teddy Holloway. And Norris Firestar.”

“To Theodore Holloway,” Knight agrees. “And Norris.”

As they touch their glasses together, Fitz wonders, “Is this in poor taste?” Their cocktails burn confidently on.

Knight says, “Kinda, yeah.”

Fitz sets her glass down on the counter. Xe watches the flames flicker and remembers the neon scorch that the incineration burned on the inside of their vision. “Bet Teddy would’ve loved it, though.”

“Gone too soon,” says Knight. Nobly. They’re good at what they do.

“The best hugs. Burned away.”

“I don’t have nerve endings. And those hugs still melted me.”

“Hey, tell me about it. They hugged me good,” Fitz says, “and I’m literally shadows.”

They sit in remembrance for a while, waiting for the fire to go out. Fitz adds, “And Norris. Now that was too soon. Kid must have been scared.”

Knight dips their head in agreement. From the dance floor, a Lover shouts for them, and they sit up, casting a look over their shoulder.

Fitz, inhibitions evaporated, says, “Don’t go.”

Knight looks back, something in their gaze softening. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

He grasps for an excuse. “I’ve got to keep you close. You know too much.” The fire floating on the surface of Fitz’s drink dies. “Been to the Undisclosed Location and all.”

Knight’s drink goes out, too. “You know I’d never tell. If I did, it would become the Disclosed Location, and now there’s no ring to that, is there?”

They both take tentative sips of their cocktails. Knight sets theirs down and picks out the smoked sprig of rosemary. Around them, the disco rolls on.

Fitz tries her best, but can’t help himself. “Did you worry,” xe starts. “When you came to us. Did you worry that they wouldn’t miss you?” They’re embarrassingly transparent, and too tipsy to care. “That they’d forget.”

“Never,” Knight says. “Their hearts are my hearts. But this isn’t about me, is it?”

Fitz doesn’t respond. They’ve embarrassed themselves enough for one night. Thankfully, Knight is kind enough to fill the silence for him. “Fitz, you’re a force on the home plate and the pitching mound. If I was a Spy, I’d miss you like an aorta.” They swirl the alcohol in their glass and add, “And not just because you’re good at blaseball.”

Gulping her cocktail, Fitz can feel themself growing denser with shadow. Something is moving inside somewhere that could be Fitz’s chest. They say the first thing on their mind, which is starting to be a trend for the night. “I miss Math.”

“You can just do it in your head.” Knight draws an absent shape on the countertop with their fingertip.

Fitz fixes Knight with a look. “Would it kill you to have one ounce of knightly propriety?”

Knight catches on. “...you meant Math Velasquez?”

“Yes, I meant Math Velasquez.”

“My apologies.”

Fitz wants to go down the list. They miss her Son, they miss Alex, Comfort, everyone. He would miss Knight if Knight wasn’t sitting beside them at a Lovers disco. Fuck it, they miss batting, a little bit. They miss the high of coming home after a run and catching every high-five raised up for xem. Especially the gauntlet high-five she’d get, just for that one season.

No reason he can’t get it now. They’re both here. Swapped back as a pair. Xe lays a sepulchral hand palm-up on the counter, skewed slightly to the side. Knight is perceptive, thank the blaseball Gods. With measured tenderness they place their hand on Fitz’s.

Third drink. Shadow people aren’t known for their alcohol tolerance, either. Fitz and the impulse to ruin the moment wrestle, and the impulse wins in a matter of seconds. “I’m not interested in being a side piece.”

Knight does the opposite of what Fitz expected and tightens their grip on his hand. “You would never be a side piece. That’s not what anybody is.”

With their free hand, Fitz polishes off their drink. It’s smoky from the flames to begin with, and only gets smokier in them. She focuses all his matter into keeping their other hand solid and holdable. “Enlighten me.”

“I wouldn’t say I love you the same,” Knight begins. “Because that’s impossible. And useless, anyway. The point is that I don’t love you the same. I don’t love anybody the same. The point is that...it’s always different. It’s always something unique, and it’s never something on the side. We’re full-frontal, baby.”

“References to nudity aside.”

“References to nudity aside,” Knight concurs, flushed. “You’re Fitz Blackburn. I don’t feel the same way for anybody else, not the same way I feel things for you.”

Fitz is silent. It’s a lot to process, for xem. They cope by raising his hand for another drink. She knows it’s unkind to leave Knight hanging, but their thoughts are difficult to sort, and worse still with the alcohol. He sees Knight even when xe’s not looking at them. On the inside. Them up to bat for the spies, handsome in their coat. Them in the half-light outside HQ, waiting up for Fitz. Them here, back in Lovers colours, saying all of these things about Fitz like they’re true.

“I would say me too,” Fitz tries, “but I feel like if I do some deity is going to smite my Spy coat to ash.”

“Take your time,” Knight soothes. “I’ll wait however long.” They finish their drink. “Hey, after that drink you’ve just ordered, what do you say we go tear up the dance floor together?”

Fitz thinks about it and is horrified to discover that they’re tempted. “Knight, if confessing my feelings strips me of my Spyhood, dancing with Lovers spits on both Teddy’s and Norris’ memory, simultaneously.”

Knight looks at Fitz, really looks. “Nobody is going to fault you for enjoying yourself. Least of all Theodore Holloway.”

Shit. They’re right. Fitz receives her next drink, runs a shadowy finger inside the rim to pick up the salt, and puts it in his mouth. For Teddy, they think. And Norris, yeah, Norris. Sorry, he keeps forgetting. Xe tips the glass back and downs its entirety in one long, glorious pull.

When they set their glass down, dizzy, Knight is looking at them with a very new look on their face. “You’re incredible,” they say, chin propped dreamily on both gauntleted palms.

Fitz smacks lips that may or may not exist. “Bet you say that to all the sentient smoke entities.”

Knight rises off the bar stool, offers Fitz their elbow. “Only the ones I like a whole lot.”

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you put two characters together just on the basis of their names look so good next to each other. also i’m neither a lover nor a spy so if anybody’s got corrections please lmk!!! <3  
> 


End file.
